


I've Found a New Baby

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mild Kidnapping, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob-Type Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:21:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22114786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: This is the first story in the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic that literally no one asked for but that kept me up nights until I wrote it.I'm sorry.But at least we'll be in that handbasket to hell TOGETHER, friends.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Harley Keener/Bucky, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Bucky, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Series: Roaring Hot [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 43
Kudos: 385





	I've Found a New Baby

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me, but it's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

When the matron tells Peter to double-time it to the office, he shrugs at Ned and MJ and trudges over to the steps. His shoes are almost worn through, and his feet are aching so much after hitting the pavement with the papers that he’s dreading the climb down the six flights of rickety stairs, but when the matron says  _ jump _ , you  _ jump _ . He’s already in hot water for oversleeping the day before, he isn’t going to chance it boiling over to burn him again. He has two months left before he’s kicked out, and while he’s managed to pick up enough extra work to build up a little savings, he’s no kind of dummy. It isn’t going to be enough, and it will be months before Ned or MJ can join him and they can work on digging out and chasing dreams.

The hot June day doesn’t help his frustrated mood any, either. He’s so thirsty, all he can think of is taking a nickel and hitting up the five and dime for a sweet cola. So maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice right away that there are three glad rags standing around the matron’s office, as well as the usual suspects when dirty work is called for- Flash, Harry, CJ, and Seymour. They’d all been around the block, they were all staring down the barrel of eviction from the State Home. Peter’s palms start to sweat as he remembered the matron saying she didn’t have to keep them on, a flop was a flop and they all five of them probably ate the most out of every mouth in the joint. He knows she could save a lot of money in one swoop by curbing them and filling their beds with younger faces, and there were a lot of those in the streets these days.

CJ shoots him a grimace and nods to the empty space next to him on the edge of the carpet. Peter hightails it over, raising his chin as he notices the flaming youth, dressed for a gin joint, not an orphanage,  _ what the dickens _ , and what are obviously his two hatchet men. He can feel every busted stitch on his shirt and pants, staring at the suits in front of him. 

He shoots a glance up to the three faces and then has to check again because that is _Harley_ _Stark_ standing there. Everyone knows him, he is always in the papers Peter’s shilling for pocket change. Recently adopted, goes his story, five years back, maybe four, he’d had a big bash for his 20th about six months back, and society pages had sold fast for the descriptions of who went and who _wasn’t invited_.

Peter feels CJ shift next to him and he bites his lip, lowering his gaze again. 

“That’s the lot of ‘em,” the matron cooes. “All ready to hit pavement in the next few months, wouldn’t mind losing any one of ‘em.”

“Yeah, no promises, this is the fifth State Home we been to in the past week,” Harley says back, sitting in her office chair and steepling his fingers, leaning forward, face intent. “Okay, well, let me look ‘em over and do some talking. Don’t mean to take any more of your time, ma’am.”

It’s a dismissal, Peter realizes, as the matron simpers and leaves them all in her office. A total and complete dismissal, like Harley owns the woman, and Peter could turn green with envy, he really could. He’d love to wave his hand and make her waddle away.

The door shuts and Peter flinches. He doesn’t know why. He’s so  _ thirsty _ , and his shirt is itching right around the collar, where the sweat has soaked in.

“All right, boys,” says Harley, smiling broadly. “I’m shopping around for a brother. But it can’t just be any kid. You know who Mr. Stark is, right? You’re not dumb to the whole world down here in Queens?”

“Yeah,” says Flash, his sneer trumpeting a challenge. “He’s the tough swell that keeps the speakeasies hopping.”

Harry grunts and digs an elbow into Flash’s side. Harley narrows his eyes and says, “Buck, he’s out.” The darker of the two hatchets walks around the desk and grabs Flash by the collar, opening the door and literally throwing Flash out. Peter feels a flash of dark amusement. Flash is such a dummy, it’s nice to see him thrown on his ear for once.

“Mr. Stark is a lot of things, and the kid wasn’t wrong,” admits Harley. “But one of the things I’m looking for is someone who knows the right thing to say and when to button up.” All four left nod uncertainly into the pause he leaves and he smiles broadly again. 

“He’s a lot of things,” Harley repeats himself. “That one can go, too, not pretty enough,” he tells Buck, pointing at Seymour. Seymour shoots Buck a black glance and backs himself towards the door, hands raised. Buck raises an eyebrow and bows while he opens the door. Buck can’t be his real name, Peter guesses. “So now there’re three,” Harley says musingly. “I’m getting faster, ain’t I, Cap?”

“It’s a relief,” says the blond hatchet man. “That one two back was just fine, should have-”

“He wasn’t right,” insists Harley, sitting back and looking at all three of them. “I need one just right. Just the best. Needs to balance me out.”

“There’s no balancing you, your suspension is shot,” Buck says, wandering back over to stand beside the matron’s desk, hip leaned against it and glowering.

“A brother?” asks CJ, like he can’t help prompting the guy. Peter watches for Harley’s reaction, which is mild. He smiles again and says, “A brother. Well, a special sort of brother. Join the family, as it were.”

“Mr. Stark not want to do his own looking for his own kid?” Harry says quietly. Peter swallows. Seymour and Flash are assholes, but him and Harry and CJ, well, they’re all good sorts. This situation is so wild and dangerous, it’s making his nerves twitch, and Peter’s not saying anything to anybody until it’s sorted out a little and he knows which way to jump.

“Nah, too busy,” laughs Harley. “Besides, this is more in the way of a thank you gift, for my birthday party.”

“Bringing home another mouth to feed ain’t usually a great way to say thanks,” CJ says cautiously.

“Won’t dent his last line any,” says Harley airily, waving this away, and then leans forward, “and like I said, I’m not just looking for any kinda mouth.”

“You’re looking for a pretty one,” Peter hears himself say, in direct conflict with his instructions to himself to stay silent.

Harley’s gaze shoots over to him and he nods slowly. The blond bodyguard shifts slightly as Harley says, “Yeah, that’s part of it. Matched set, Mr. Stark likes things to be balanced.” He waves a hand at his own face and body. “Balance is important.”

Peter swallows and nods back at him, but he doesn’t know what he’s agreeing to. Not getting shot or killed, he supposes bleakly. Those solemn faces radiate menace and he’d hate to see it aimed at anyone. Especially  _ him _ .

CJ shifts beside Peter, putting Peter just a little behind him. Peter would roll his eyes, but Harley is still staring him down. “I don’t know,” says CJ, and his tone is so achingly respectful and cautious, it makes Peter’s palms sweat again, “if you’re going to find what you’re looking for here in this office.”

“Mm,” hums Harley, and then abruptly points at Harry and asks, “you Italian?”

“Maybe, I’m a mutt,” mutters Harry, and then adds, “Most of us are.”

“How long you been here?” Harley asks CJ. Harry and Peter both stir uncomfortably as CJ slides just another half-inch in front of Peter. He gets any further in front, Peter thinks, Peter’ll have to push him back, he doesn’t think it’s so smart appearing like someone you gotta protect in front of these three.

“Six, maybe seven when me and my kid sister was dropped off,” CJ admits. 

“Okay, you can go, too, don’t want to break up a family,” says Harley with regret. Steve stirs and CJ tells him, “I don’t need to be escorted,” but then CJ hesitates, like leaving Peter is harder than he expected. Peter touches his elbow and says, “Be fine, CJ. Go to , Joanna.” CJ shakes his head but slides from the office.

“So now we’re down to two,” says Harley, “getting better at this at every stop. Hey, remind me to tell the dame at the next one that we don’t need any of ‘em if they’ve got plus ones.”

Buck and Steve nod in unison, their serious faces not even twitching at this blunt and surely bizarre directive.

“So what’s so special about you?” Harley asks Peter, as Harry slides over to take CJ’s place just a little in front of him. “Everybody’s jumping in front of you like I’m a rabid dog about to take a chump chomp.”

Peter shrugs while Harry says, “Nothing much, he just doesn’t have any sense.”

Harley laughs at that, leaning back. “Yeah, that would about match.” His eyes are merry on Peter’s face as his hand taps the desk. “You got any siblings you care to reveal, kid?”

Peter shakes his head no and Harley’s smile broadens. “And how long’ve you been in here?”

“Couple years,” admits Peter. “My aunt had me after my parents, God rest them, but then the flu hit her, two winters back.” He doesn’t mention Uncle Ben, a lump in his throat, but he can talk about May these days.

“She take care of you good?” Harley inquires seriously. “Feed you regular, you go to school?”

Peter nods, warily.

“You need much hitting to behave?” Harley asks and Peter is shocked, what kind of question is that to ask someone else? He looks at Steve and Buck, blank-faced bookends on either side of jovial Harley, and his mouth goes dry as he stammers, “N-no.”

“Peter’s a good kid,” Harry says sternly, and Peter feels a trickle of warmth in his stomach at the quick defense. “Hardly ever gets on the matron’s bad side, always working extra at the laundry, helping take care of the littles. He’s a  _ good kid _ .” Harry puts a strange emphasis on the last two words, almost a challenge.

“And I’m not,” Harley tells him dryly, his hand making a sideways chopping motion and his voice both brutal and bored. “So can it.” There’s a pause while he considers Peter and then he says, voice warm with good humor again, “Yeah, wait, Buck, that spare piece can go, time for the private interview portion.”

Buck advances on Harry, who stands his ground and tells Harley, “Go find someone else. Not Peter.”

Harley is still looking at Peter, and Peter is staring back, trying to read all the details of this scene, looking for clues. So he notices the slight twitch at Harley’s mouth and the almost imperceptible nod he gives Steve.

“Okay, enough,” says Steve, taking ahold of Harry’s arm and shaking him. “You’re not worth the paper you’re printed on, and neither is he, and you know it. Get out. Scram. I find you hanging out in the hall, I’ll make you regret it.”

Harry turns white, and Peter can sympathize, it’s obvious these bodyguards aren’t exactly civilized men, for all they’re wearing nice suits. Harry lets himself be pushed out of the room and Buck closes the door behind him. 

“There, that’s cozy, just the way I like it,” says Harley, standing up and crossing to stand in front of Peter. He reaches out and tousles Peter’s hair. “Any lice?”

Peter frowns and says, “No, I’m not  _ Irish _ .”

Harley laughs at this, Peter can smell the cough-syrup scent of alcohol on him at this distance. He says, “Hey, you could be, heard you were all mutts just now. And lice don’t seem to care. You wouldn’t make such a pretty picture if I had to get you shaved, is why I ask.”

“I don’t have any,” Peter tells him directly. Harley’s eyes are twinkling as he says, “Open up, gonna have a look at that pretty mouth from the inside.”

“I’m not a horse,” protests Peter, but he opens his mouth when Harley frowns at him and Buck stirs.

“Yeah, no sores,” muses Harley, peering in and then, “you can close it.”

Peter closes it and frowns. “I don’t have crabs, either,” he says, “or mumps, or any of it, I’m healthy.”

“Scars?” asks Harley, and this is the weirdest  _ interview _ ever but Peter’s never been in the running to be someone’s new brother so he’s not familiar with the criteria. Harley’s clearly making up the process as he goes along, anyway. 

“None,” he responds, a little of his mystification leaking into his voice.

“None?” asks Harley, a little doubtful, touching a finger to his own neck, where Peter can just see the faint white line of a long healed welt.

“None,” confirms Peter. Harley shakes his head in disbelief.

“You got any objections to living high on the hog? Mr. Stark’s the richest man in the world right now,” Harley tells him, as if they’re not standing in New York, where everyone  _ knows _ that. He’s watching Peter closely.

Peter doesn’t even know how to answer a question like that, so he says, “What, like little Orphan Annie?”

“Usually not so many cute dresses,” concedes Harley with a wicked grin. “And Mr. Stark’s no Daddy Warbucks. But yeah, that’s on offer today.”

Peter thinks about the question. He’s from Queens, you don’t get something for nothing around here. “What’s the catch?”

“Ah,” sighs Harley, folding back on himself to lean against the desk. “That… that might be better as a demonstration kinda thing. You know they can zotz you and no one will care, right? We weren’t out yesterday because they were busy taking out a snitch’s entire family.” Peter feels shock slide down his spine at the blunt words as Harley tips his head side to side, nodding at Buck and Steve. “Just, just want that clear. Don’t do anything stupid.” Peter glances up at the pair’s stony faces, swallowing quickly against a spurt of panic.

Peter chokes out, “Yeah, okay, not worth the paper I’m printed on, got it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, actually,” Harley tells him seriously, his lips twitching. “Sometimes when you go dumpster diving you find some hot ice, and I’m a man knows how to get it fenced.” His smile is wicked and fun and if Peter wasn’t terrified, he’d smile back, it’s that easygoing and warm. As it is, he just swallows again.

“Okay, Steve, think you can do that thing you do, give him an idea what he’s gonna need to know?” says Harley, his eyes dark on Peter’s face, not blinking.

Steve nods, and swallows, stepping forward, and Peter is a little shocked as he turns his gaze to watch him advance, because the guy looks  _ nervous _ all of a sudden. He steps way too close, and puts a hand on Peter’s cheek, which is  _ shocking _ , and tilts Peter’s face up. Peter’s suddenly acutely aware that Steve is built like a war charger, like the Clydesdales that pull the ice truck through to the drugstore every Wednesday. He shifts his weight and glances up at Steve, who is staring at him with a rapt expression. 

Peter’s world  _ shifts _ suddenly, looking up at the other man, at the way the other man is looking at  _ him _ . His heart begins racing, not with fear, but with something  _ else _ . He feels his breathing go funny, and he can’t help it, he presses his cheek into that hand. There’s something in the other man’s gaze that burns into him, makes it okay to press his cheek, seek that connection. He watches a bit of humor and warmth seep into those piercing blue eyes, and then the man tips his head down and seals his lips to Peter’s.

Peter abruptly can’t breathe because this is- this is- he’s not a  _ cake-eater,  _ he’s not, him and MJ are going to-  _ with Ned,  _ his brain interrupts calmly, a shock of cold water that makes him part his lips on a gasp. The other man takes advantage of it to press in closer and swipe his tongue across Peter’s lip. Peter identifies that he’s way too calm for this moment, Slim Jim was just  _ beaten to death _ last week for making a pass at someone from outta town, this is illegal, kissing- being kissed by- this guy, in the  _ matron’s office _ , and there’s  _ two other guys  _ watching it happen. But he doesn’t step back. He doesn’t punch the guy, which, maybe he should, but that sounds like a short ticket to a wooden kimono. He’s not known for being able to throw a punch anyway, and the guy is so clearly a  _ professional _ mook.

“So, he passes that one, too,” Harley says, in an amused tone of voice. Peter flinches away from the older man, who slips his other hand up and draws Peter’s mouth back to his, inexorably. Peter pulls back, a little, but that just seems to make the guy more excited, his tongue more forceful. “Yeah, I figured. He’s a fucking angel, Bucky, I’ll take him. Call off your partner, he can have more later.”

“Steve,” growls the other bodyguard, and the blond man chuckles and steps back, hands dropping back to his side. Peter is left gasping as Harley snaps his fingers and says, “Okay, kid, you’re mine now, anything you need outta this fleatrap? No clothes, God, but like, any personal effects? A half a locket?”

Peter’s whole world is spinning as he turns to look into Harley’s laughing dark eyes. He can’t quite parse the question because he should definitely be dying right now.

“Kid,” laughs Harley, “you okay to leave right now? Clothes on your back? If you wanna call those clothes, which, I  _ don’t _ .”

Peter nods, thinking that Ned and MJ know where his sock full of money is.

“You ain’t coming back, brother,” Harley says in disgust, looking around at the ragged carpet and worn out furniture that fills the office. “I won’t have it. You got any ratty friends, we’ll make you some new ones. Nothing’s dragging you back down here. You’re ours now.” Steve wipes his mouth with a couple of fingers while Buck catches Peter’s gaze to smirk at him.

Peter thinks of Ned, of MJ, but then Buck moves to open the door and he flinches. He’s well aware he’s not being given  _ options _ right now, but  _ orders _ . He ducks his head, his mind racing, but not getting anywhere. There’s nowhere for it to go. He wipes the back of his hand over his mouth, and then flinches because what if that’s some kind of insult?

Harley says, “Lead the way, Steve,” and waves the blond man in front of him, and then captures Peter’s arm in a tight grip. “We’ll get you home and kitted out, kid. Your head is gonna be spinning but it’ll settle. Just don’t do anything stupid while everything gets organized. Be smart.”

Peter nods at him as he’s dragged into the short hallway at the front of the building. Steve opens the door to the street, and Buck is stalking behind him, and Peter realizes he’s sort of being kidnapped. By _Tony Stark’s_ _son_ and a pair of hired guns. He can feel his heart begin to race as he’s tugged down the stairs and shoved into the back of an enormous black car. Buck-Bucky breaks off to drive and Steve settles opposite him on the plush velvet seats. Harley closes the door with an air of authority and starts shutting the shades on the windows, gesturing for Steve to help him. There’s a light in the ceiling, thinks Peter in a daze. It looks like one of the electric lights in the streetlamps. 

Harley and Steve sit back and Harley starts laughing. “Oh God, kid, sorry, I shouldn’t laugh, I been in your spot, but just, don’t faint, okay? I promise, just don’t do anything stupid and this’ll all be okay. I been doing it four years now, it hasn’t hardly killed me yet, and you’re a perfect  _ angel _ .”

Steve nods, eyes dancing as he looks at Peter, one hand rising to brush his lips. “You were right,” he tells Harley, like he’s conceding a long-held argument as gracefully as he can.

“Course I was. I know these neighborhoods, well, not  _ this _ one-” he glares at a covered window in disgust before continuing, “I knew that somewhere in a State Home was a good kid smart enough to get his bread buttered with the cream spread. That’s you, Peter,” he says, grabbing Peter’s thigh and giving it a shake. “Might change your name, though. What’s your last one?”

“Parker,” wheezes Peter, because he’s not pushing that hand off but it’s awfully, awfully  _ friendly _ , for someone who’s kidnapping him, not that anyone will care, Harley has that absolutely right. 

“I like Peter,” says Steve, a little defensively, eyes twinkling. 

“Well, it’s not bad,” concedes Harley. “I just never named anything before. This is my chance.”

“Name him Peter Stark,” suggests Steve, laughing, and as his arm falls back on the seat Peter catches a glimpse of metal sticking out from the man’s armpit. His eyes twitch up in fright to look at Steve and Steve smiles slowly, saying, “You’re a good kid, you stay a good boy and there’s no reason to be scared of me, I’m on the side of the angels.”

“Peter Stark’s good,” Harley decides aloud. “Pepper will like it. She hated mine didn’t come out of the Bible. Kept wanting to change it to John or Jacob. Do I look like a Jacob?” he asks Peter abruptly, eyes laughing.

“No,” Peter says, grateful for an easy question. 

“Yeah, that’s what I said. Thank God Mr. Stark talked her outta it. Jacob Stark, ekkk.” Harley pulls a face. “Anyway, I guess you can stay Peter.“ 

They ride in silence for a few more minutes, Peter concentrating on not panicking and not thinking at all, about anything, until Harley say musingly, “Hey, Cap, have Clint grab his papers, whatever they got outta that place, when we get home, and tell that spifflicated lawyer I want him legal by the end of the week.  _ Ours _ ,” he says, jiggling Peter’s thigh playfully before checking Peter’s expression and leaning in more seriously, concern splashed across his face, “Oh, God, kid, just breathe, I promise, you’ll survive, I promise, you’re my kid brother now, I won’t let anything happen to you. Well, much. I can’t, Mr. Stark is a force of fucking nature, I can’t help you there, but he’ll give you some time to get settled in, I promise. And he’ll want you on the side of the angels so you’ll be really safe, really cared for. Just keep breathing, you’ll be fine. Just keep being that angel I saw shine out in that dump, okay?”

Peter nods because  _ why not reassure his kidnapper. _

“Good boy,” praises Steve. “He’s a good kid. Almost too pretty, but a good match for you, Hellcat.”

Harley laughs, “Yeah, Pepper’s gonna love dressing him. Five’ll get you ten, she makes us match most of the time.”

“Mr. Stark’ll like that,” Steve says and then he shifts in his seat. Harley makes a noise of interest and inquiry and then says teasingly, in a strange tone Peter’s never heard anyone use before, “You’ll like it too, right, Stevie? If he’s on the angel side, he’ll be yours to watch over, you know Mr. Stark’ll assign you to him, you’ll like it if we’re a matched set, too, right?” 

Steve shifts again and glances at Harley, a quick glance full of censure before flicking his gaze to Peter and back to Harley again. Peter can feel Harley shift forward, tension in his slight frame, as the man continues, “Aww, c’mon, he’ll have to get used to it, ma always used to say start the way you mean to go on, Stevie, and I mean to  _ go on _ .” He reaches out and puts a hand on Steve’s knee and Peter turns to glare at the curtain covering the window, his heart racing in his chest. Steve clears his throat and says quietly, “Maybe not in the first hour, Hellcat.”

“ _ Exactly _ in the first hour, Tony had me on my knees in the first  _ fifteen _ , you were  _ there, _ ” says Harley, insisting, pressing his point, rubbing his hand a little further up Steve’s thigh, scooting forward on the seat. The car is riding so smoothly, Peter can’t compare it to anything he’s ever felt before, not a cart or a carriage or a train. It’s so smooth, and Harley’s like that, too, being so smooth as he shifts forward inch by slow inch towards the other man, voice coaxing. “Besides, I gotta whole lot to show him before Tony signs for him and makes it official, a whole lot he needs to know before Tony gets back from his trip, can’t waste any time, Stevie.”

“Fuck,” swears Steve, and Peter gasps, he’s never, he knows it’s a word, but he’s never heard anyone  _ use _ it before, other than to steer him clear of it. His eyes flick away from the curtain to glance at Steve, and then get caught by the other man’s gaze and trapped. “Sorry kid, language,” Steve says, shamefaced, in his direction, and then, “I’ll shoot you, Peter, if you don’t just sit right there and just, just do nothing while Harley takes care of me. No jumping out of the car, no, nothing, okay, angel?” His stare is hard and wild, somehow, and Peter swallows, nodding, as Harley makes a satisfied noise and slides to his knees in front of the other man.

“Gotta get this angel an education,” laughs Harley, fingers flying fast at the front of Steve’s pants. Peter is not, he’s heard the shouts of the women in the red light district, he knows, he knows what _going_ _on_ _your_ _knees_ means- there was that time Aunt May’s boss had said it, too- his heart is racing and he swallows, but he can’t look away this time, can’t peel his eyes to stare back up at the curtain, because Harley’s head is bobbing up and down, now, and Steve’s eyes are fluttering shut, one hand lax on the seat, the other wrapped around the butt of his gun by his shoulder. “Hellcat,” Steve moans, “your tongue just gets tricksier and tricksier, you taking lessons?”

Harley laughs, but it sounds, sounds choked, and Peter can’t think about that, he can’t, but he also can’t stop thinking about it, wondering what the fuck his  _ kidnapper _ is doing on his knees. Who’s in charge, here? 

It’s a long ride, uncomfortable, Peter’s sweating through his shirt in the trapped heat of the little car. Eventually, though, Steve is grunting and groaning, hand gripping the seat, and then his eyes open wide and capture Peter’s shocked gaze and he splutters and chokes, face turning red, muscles taut. Harley laughs after a moment and sits back, his fingers flying against the man’s clothes in patterns Peter can’t see because his body hides them from view. He teases Steve, sitting back, “Guess the angel does do things for ya, huh Stevie? Loved having him watch you dirty me up a bit?” Steve’s face blushes a deep red and he cuffs Harley hard, lifting him back into his seat beside Peter, where the man laughs some more and lifts his face for a kiss. Steve gives him a quick peck and Peter is as completely shocked by that as he was by the- by the  _ other _ . Harley laughs again, sitting back, licking his lips, and then saying, “Gimme a Coke, stop, tell Bucky, I want a Coke.” Steve turns around and grabs for a cup that’s hanging from the ceiling, a golden cup, or a brass one, Peter thinks wildly. He tugs it twice and then says into it, “Coke stop, I’ll run.” 

Harley wipes his mouth and turns to Peter, snickering. “Oh, God, angel, I’m sorry, your face,” he splutters. “But I promise, you won’t, when we get around to doing that kind of stuff, you’ll like it, Mr. Stark will take it slow, for you, I promise. I’ll help. Stop looking so scared,” he says impatiently, after a moment where Peter can’t think of anything to say, “It’s just a blowjob.”

“You’re a demon, Hellcat,” Steve murmurs to Harley, but his lips are twitching as he continues, “stop messing with him just because you can.” He shifts to look at Peter again and says, “Good job holding still, angel. Smart kid, not to do anything stupid while I was busy.”

Peter thinks about this man knocking off an entire family and nods, mouth dry. 

“Better you learn this way,” Steve tells him seriously. “So you get it all over with at once, all the shock, by the end of the week, you’ll be fine again, angel, I promise.”

“Aww, you’re feeling protective, Stevie, that’s so, I mean, did you see the way those other kids were trying to take care of him in that dirty flop? Definitely a diamond, the way everyone’s responding to him. Bucky about swallowed his tongue when the kid walked in the office, did you catch that?” laughs Harley, head lolling back on the seat. The motion of the car changes, slowing down, stopping, and Steve sighs his agreement at Harley, twitching his clothes and glaring at the door, shifting his gun in its holster.

Peter shifts uncomfortably on the seat. He’s so  _ thirsty _ . Harley looks over at him and says, “Yeah, get us all a round, our angel could use some spoiling, fattening up, all skin and bones, looks like one of them gamine girls down at Freddy’s. Candy, too, if they got it, wherever we are.” Peter can almost taste the Coke on his tongue and tears spring to his eyes as Steve steps down out of the car. The bright light of the fading sun glows in, as well as the sounds of the city, before he closes it again behind him.

“Oh, hey, none of that, angel,” says Harley, sliding closer, wrapping an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “The devil side of the family isn’t great at, we’re no good with tears, and Steve’s the only other angel side we got with us and he’s out on errands. Snuffle them back, I can’t, I won’t know what to do.” 

Peter scrubs at his face, these people have  _ guns _ , and they’re buying him candy, he has no idea who’s in charge but it’s  _ not him _ right now.

“Okay, going to give it my best shot,” warns Harley, when the tears start falling anyway. Peter bites his lip and hunches forward, scrubbing at his face like crazy. There’s a long pause, and then tentative fingers touch Peter’s neck. 

“Tony’s gonna love you, gonna love spoiling you,” Harley is murmuring, stroking Peter’s neck and it’s so, he doesn’t want to be touched but can you tell that to a kidnapper? Is that the kind of information you can share? Besides, he might not want it, but it’s working, it feels so good, his body is just kind of giving in, the touch feels so  _ good _ . “You all upset because we’re being nice, angel, buying you a Coke? Tony’s gonna buy you a Coke factory, you watch, I know exactly how it feels right now, but it gets better, just, just stay with us, don’t do anything stupid. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Peter says, a little miserably, “What do you want? _Why_ _me_?”

Harley chuckles, hand still stroking back and forth along Peter’s neck, and says, “Brother, that’ll take days. You be quiet now, quiet and good, and Steve’ll bring you a Coke, we’re probably almost home by now. Just, quiet down, just sit here.”

The door opens and Steve slides in and Peter wants to sit up but his stomach starts cramping. Sleeping in means missing mass yesterday, and missing mass means nothing but milk rations yesterday and today. “He throwing a hissy fit?” Steve asks, voice a little dark and dangerous, and the sound of crackling wax paper fills the car, the clink of glass bottles.

“Nah, we’re being too nice,” Harley says defensively, pushing a cold bottle against Peter’s arm. “Give him a minute, it’s a lot. Think about it, the first time Mr. Stark swooped you up, it’s just a lot at first.”

Peter sighs and sits back, cautiously, not looking at either man as he takes the first sip. It tastes exactly like he remembers, sweet and cool, and he starts crying again, trying to be _quiet_ about it, at least.   
  
“C’mere, angel,” murmurs Steve, the gunman, and then when Peter doesn’t move, can’t move, is frozen, he reaches out and roughly pulls Peter into his lap. Peter’s hands are shaking, and some of the soda spills, and he’s apologizing before he’s even aware he’s able to talk, “Sorry, please, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to spill, I’m so sorry,” he’s moaning, because there’s the gun, _right_ _there_.

“I’m not gonna drill you over a stain or two,” says Steve with enough exasperation that Peter starts shaking harder. “We’ve spent weeks buzzing for you. Lean back, here, take a sip, take a sip, angel. Lean back a moment. Hellcat, grab some of that cinnamon roll, let’s get some food into you.” 

Peter is limp and exhausted and so turned around he doesn’t even know what to do. They pass him small pieces of something like bread that’s delicious and fluffy and coated in something sticky and sweet. He eats everything they give him, and sips when Steve orders him to. Finally he’s just laying there, draped over the man, sipping the last of the liquid out of the bottle. 

“He’s a goddamn sugar-sweet saint, nothing but fluff and cotton candy,” Harley declares. “Tony’s going to lose his damn mind, he acts like that around the big shot.”

Steve chuckles, Peter can feel it rumble through his chest. “Tony’ll love it, all these crocodile tears.” He taps Peter on the nose and Peter flinches because the man killed an entire family yesterday. It’s a _reasonable_ _response_.

The car pulls to a stop and Harley looks up at the door from his candybar with excitement. “Home! Okay, brother, we’ll get you settled in, you’re going to love it, Steve won’t let anyone even look at you cross-eyed, you’ll see.”

The door opens and a heavily accented female voice asks, “Well? James says we have a prize?” a red-headed woman’s face appears in Peter’s line of sight and she makes a disgusted face, protesting, “He’s filthy, Harley!” Peter flinches back.

“So we’ll clean him up, ‘Tasha, ” Harley tells her, grabbing Peter’s arm and pushing her out of the doorway, dragging Peter up off of Steve behind him. “He’s perfect and he’s  _ ours _ , now, and he’s an  _ angel _ , matched set.” Peter stumbles exiting the car, and Steve steadies him with one hand under his armpit. Peter can feel a blush crawl up his neck as Harley tugs him to move faster towards the stairs. 

The stairs are massive, they climb and climb, and Peter feels his jaw drop open as he looks at the mansion that sits atop them. “Oh, yeah,” laughs Harley, pausing a moment, clearly enjoying the look on Peter’s face. “I always forget that, don’t you, ‘Tasha? So big, right, Peter? And it’s all ours.”   
  
The Tasha woman appears in Peter’s line of vision over Harley’s shoulder and her doubtful gaze makes Peter flinch back. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Okay, gotta climb, angel, let’s go, can’t get you cleaned up out here.” Peter flinches again, but puts one foot on the first step and lets Harley tug him up the rest of them. At the top, the massive, ornate doors slide open and a man in an impeccable suit is standing there. “Jarvis!” shouts Harley, as they near, clearly greeting the man, “Look, I  _ got _ him, what a diamond in the rough.”

“Mr. Stark will be so pleased, Master Harley,” says the man and Peter startles because that’s not a New York accent. It’s clipped and assured and he’s goggling at the man as they walk past him. “Welcome to Stark Manor, Master---?”

“Peter,” says Steve firmly.

“Very good, sir,” replies Jarvis, bowing a little. “You’ll be wanting Karen and Mrs. Friday to take him and make him  _ comfortable _ ?” Peter gets the impression it’s not comfortable Jarvis is worried about at that moment, but that fits with the Tasha woman’s  _ he’s filthy.  _ He looks behind himself, at all the long white stairs, a little worried there will be smudges on it from his dirty shoes.

“No, we’ll handle it ourselves, thanks, Jarvis,” laughs Harley, tugging Peter forward. There’s  _ gold on the walls _ , and their footsteps echo, the sound is incredible, the ceiling is like being in the alley outside the Home and looking up. Peter catches glimpses of rooms, every room a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes, as Harley guides him up the grand staircase straight ahead, pulling impatiently as Peter stumbles. “C’mon, brother, you’ll fit in my stuff for now, Pepper’s gonna have a field day kitting you out, but you’re so skinny, it’ll hang wrong and she’ll complain. Mine’ll be good enough for today.”

Steve says, “Bucky’ll take care of Clint and the lawyer, I’ll stay with you. Natasha,  _ drift _ , tell staff what’s up.”

Peter wonders what would happen if he stopped letting himself be dragged along and shouted, “Help, I’m being kidnapped, call the police.” He eyes up the servants scurrying this way and that ahead of them, thinks of Jarvis’s clipped and unperturbed syllables of greeting, and decides he’s better off just following Harley.

“Here, this, this way,” says Harley authoritatively at the top of the stairs, turning right. “This is the Stark Hall. We’ve got a bathtub right in our room, you and me.”

“Oh, you’re sharing now,” laughs Steve.

Harley flips him a dark look over his shoulder and retorts, “Someone’s got to keep an eye on him, he’s clearly not made for flying solo.”

“Just, you were giving me guff about being protective back in the rattlebox,” teases Steve. 

“He’s an angel,” declares Harley, as if this the authoritative answer to everything. It must be, because Steve snorts and lets it drop.

Harley pushes Peter into a room, draped in deep blues with pops of red, with couches in a sitting area, baseball and glove on the table between them, and a large bed in the center of the room. There’s two doors off the right side and a single door set into the far left corner. Harley says, “C’mon, kid, let’s get you washed up, can’t run around here looking like that,” and pushes Peter towards the farthest right door. 

It opens into a blue-tiled room, with a blue enamel clawfoot bathtub along one wall and a blue toilet and sink along another. Peter didn’t even know they could  _ come _ in colors, although he’s seen clawfoots before. Harley lets him go and wanders over, messing with the bathtub spigot to begin filling the tub. There’s bottles and bottles of things in a cupboard built into the far wall.

Behind him, Peter hears heavy footsteps. He whirls and almost bumps into Steve, who has taken off his jacket so the guns-  _ two _ guns, thinks Peter, shocked again- are on clear display. “Steady, angel,” says Steve, putting his hands on Peter’s shoulders and holding him still. “Harley’s got big plans, you just keep focused on not being stupid, you got me? Be a smart kid, take the bath, put on the rags. I won’t let him drag you down to dinner, you’ll eat up here with me and Bucky tonight.” 

Peter nods, because, again, why not placate his kidnappers? And then he feels a little guilty, because the guy bought him a Coke and the cinnamon thing, hand fed him and helped him calm down. He slants a glance up at Steve through his lashes and the guy smiles back at him, small and private. “You’re doing good, angel,” he says. 

“Strip!” interjects Harley. “Get outta them rags, can’t believe anyone would think they’re still fit for wearing, them’s seams’re busting out, brother.”

Peter flushes, and walks over to the tub, sliding his suspenders off his shoulders, thinking,  _ be a smart kid _ at himself fiercely. He can feel the gazes of the other two men hot across his shoulders. He flushes because he’s spent the last couple of years undressing in front of Flash and Ned and the other boys in the dorms, it shouldn’t be any big deal, but they’d, in the car,  _ they’d-- _ , and Steve had  _ kissed _ him, too, and so it  _ is _ a big deal to strip in front of them.

“Awww, shy angel,” teases Harley. Peter really kind of hates the nickname he’s acquired in the last couple of hours. Not that he’s saying that to anybody here.

“Not everyone comes out with a flashbang like you, Hellcat,” agrees Steve. “Here, Peter, we’ll give you a moment, we won’t watch.”

“Awww,” complains Harley, but there’s the sound of them moving and when Peter looks back, just to check, Steve has his arms around Harley’s shoulders and they’re facing the far wall.

The bath is full of suds already, as Peter kicks off his shoes and winces at the thought of sliding the blisters they covered into the hot water. He slides out of his pants and shirt, letting them fall to the ground and then his drawers and undershirt, too. He quickly hops in, hissing as the hot water does, in fact, attack every blister, cut, scratch, and scrape everywhere on his body, turning in the water to face the other men immediately.

Harley whirls, wiggling out of Steve’s grasp and smiling with delight. “It’s the best, right? Blue’s my favorite color, Mr. Stark had it built  _ for me _ . I spent two days just soaking after it was all done. Here I’m going to shampoo that mop on your head.” He grabs a bottle off of the shelf, and an ewer. “Close your eyes,” he instructs Peter. Peter doesn’t really want to, but he can’t see any way around it, either, so he shuts them tightly and hunches his shoulders. He hears Harley fill the ewer in the tub and dump it over Peter’s head. Peter winces as it gets everywhere, but it’s nice, too. He remembers hot baths from Aunt May’s kitchen, in the winter, her big dishpan bucket and rough terrycloths. She’d always made him go first, and then washed next, but this is, this is a swimming pool. He has no idea why he’s so close to crying again, but he is. 

Harley works the soap into his hair, and it stings when it slides down into Peter’s eyes, but he wipes it away angrily and  _ doesn’t cry _ . Harley gathers another ewer full of water and dumps it over Peter’s head, awkwardly, several times, before he’s apparently satisfied. 

“Okay, gonna scrub,” announces Harley. Peter would open his eyes in shock but he’s not sure where the ewer is and he definitely doesn’t want more soap in his eyes, they’re already stinging pretty badly. “Here, back up, let me, gotta scrub, Peter, you’re filthy.” Peter wonders for a second, mutinously, what the other man would do if he just held still.

“Hey, now,” says Steve, suddenly, startling Peter with the nearness of his voice. “Hand him the rag and let him scrub some, see what he can get off himself.”

“Awww, you’re no fun, Stevie,” laughs Harley, but there’s a rag placed on Peter’s shoulder. He scrubs his eyes, first, his whole face, behind his ears, before opening them and seeing Steve crouched by the front of the tub, eyes intent on Peter’s face.

“He’s had enough for one day, Harley, enough teasing. Let’s just get him comfortable.”

“He’s got a lot we gotta get through yet, Stevie,” sing songs Harley, and Peter wonders if he hears a pout in that tone of voice, but doesn’t turn around to look. “Gotta whole education before Friday.”

“Nah, cat,” says Steve mildly, nodding at Peter, who starts scrubbing behind his ears and along his neck. “He’s fine just as he is. You picked a good one.”

Harley makes a little pleased noise, and trails one hand in the soap suds as he walks around the tub to the front. “Don’t forget your nose,” he tells Peter. Peter scrubs at it immediately and Harley breaks into a huge smile.

“Good boy,” praises Steve, one hand trailing into the water to splash a little. “Keep scrubbing. We’ll refill the water and go again here in a minute.”

“I’ll grab a towel!” says Harley, bounding over to a set of drawers and producing a thick, small blanket with a quick grab, shaking it out.

Peter keeps scrubbing, his chest, his arms. “You gonna let me get your back, angel?” asks Steve earnestly. “I promise no hanky-panky, not like what Harley had planned for you.”

Peter bites his lip but passes the man the terrycloth silently. Steve rolls up his sleeves and runs the washcloth up and down Peter’s back. It feels good, as good as Harley’s hand on the back of his neck in the car had, and Peter swallows against the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know what these people  _ want _ , he doesn’t  _ understand them _ . They talk in riddles about angels and hellcats, and Mr. Stark and Tony, and about how he’s theirs now, but what does that even mean? Why would anyone buy Peter a Coke factory?  _ What will he owe the guy who does? _ Harley had said no one would even look cross-eyed at Peter but then the Tasha woman had called him filthy and looked at him like a bug and no one  _ said anything _ .

Peter feels like he’s drowning. Steve passes him back the washcloth and he starts to scrub at his feet, his poor feet, avoiding the blisters with a hiss that has Steve’s eyes narrowing for a moment in obvious concern. Peter shakes his head and scrubs up his knees and thighs, swipes at his privates, and notices how dark the water looks

“Out,” says Steve. “Here, hold the towel, cat.”

Harley stands up and holds out the blanket to Peter, motioning for him to rise up and wrap it around himself. Peter manages it, awkwardly, clutching the towel to his skin. Harley traces a line of water down Peter’s neck and collarbone with a finger while Steve empties the tub.

“Out,” repeats Steve. “Gonna rinse it out, refill it, get him out.”

Harley motions for Peter to step out, onto the cold tile, and Peter shivers as he obeys, trying to keep his body out of the other man’s trailing hands. Harley smiles, a wicked smile, and Peter shivers, listening to the sound of Steve refilling the tub.

“Okay,” Steve says after a while, “back in, for a rinse and soak.”

Peter stares at the clear water and Steve sighs. “Okay, angel, we’ll turn our backs, you _get_ _in_.”

Harley makes another disappointed noise but obediently turns his back. Peter lets the towel drop on a nearby hook and steps into the hot bath, hissing as the water re-hits those blisters.

“You ok, angel?” asks Steve, startling Peter into checking to see if he’s still turned away. He is. Peter tries to sigh his relief quietly. “Looking at what’s left of these shoes, you got any feet on the end of those gams?

“M fine,” says Peter, his voice a little choked.

“You will be now,” agrees Harley. “We’ll call the bonesetter, you’ll like him, Dr. Banner is the best guy, total angel.”

There’s silence for a moment. Peter wonders if he should say thank you, and then Harley continues, “Well, except when he’s on his tiger milk. Worst devil working for Mr. Stark, then.” And Steve makes a noise of  _ agreement. _

“Oh, hey, clothes,” says Harley brightly.

“Pajamas,” says Steve firmly.

“Aww, but dinner, Stevie,” whines Harley.

“He’s flattened, Hellcat. We’ll do dinner, me and Bucky and him, up here. Grab some pajamas, bring them here, and then go get dressed, yourself, tell Karen.”

Harley surprises Peter by following the directions given to him, which makes him wonder, again,  _ who’s in charge here. _ Back at the Home, he’d have bet all his money on Harley, but, well, it doesn’t sit the same way with all the things he’s seen so far. Steve steps backwards, coming closer to the bathtub without turning around, and Peter can’t help that he kicks back immediately, his back slamming against the porcelain and splashing some of the water out. “Sorry,” he whimpers, he can’t help it, as Steve whirls around at the sound, eyes wide. 

“You okay? No use crying over spilled water in this room, angel. Just worried, you okay?” Now that he’s broken the offer to keep his eyes front, Steve’s gaze travels all across Peter’s body in the bathtub and Peter flushes, remembering the car, remembering the office- and then, like a switch flipping, telling himself firmly to stop thinking. 

“Let’s get you out, have a quick check, see what’s the damage before calling the doc up. Maybe you won’t even need a patch-up,” but he sounds doubtful. Steve crosses to the drawers again, and pulls out a different small thick blanket and says, “Duck under, rinse off, c’mon, now, Harley will be back in a moment, you’ll want to be under the towel by then, huh?”

Peter nods and then hesitates. Steve blows out a breath and rolls his eyes and says, firmly, “Duck, angel, my hands’ll stay right here on the towel, honest Abe.”

Peter holds his breath and ducks under the water for a brief second, and then sits back up again, wiping the water from his eyes. 

“Okay, stand up, angel, I got you, promise, no hanky-panky, just helping a friend out,” mutters Steve. Peter flushes again but stands, grabbing for the towel in the same motion. Steve pulls the plug on the bathtub while Peter wraps the towel around himself and then moves back to the side of the tub where Peter is trying to wipe off his hair and face without undoing the towel’s wrap around his chest and hips. He smiles and says, in a teasing voice, “I’ll give you the rub down some other day, when you’re settled and feeling better.” Peter stares at him, shivering when a line of water slides down his back. “Sorry, angel, just teasing,” Steve tells him, face cracking in a small smile. 

Harley bounds back in with deep blue silk over one arm and says, “Oh, you can tease him but when I do I’m being hellspawn?”

“Never said that,” protests Steve, raising a hand to grab for the silk.

“Didn’t have to, I know that look,” scoffs Harley, releasing the fabric over to him with another pout.

“Go get dressed for dinner, you’ll be late,” Steve warns him. “You know Tasha’s in a tear with Mr. Stark getting in on Friday and you and me and Buck being out on the town this past week.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Harley, waving at both of them as he bounds back out.

“Who’s in charge here,” slips out before Peter can even think to  _ not ask it _ .

Steve looks up at him, kicking his clothes to one side, and smiles. “Well, with Mr. Stark out, that question probably makes a lot of sense. Mr. Stark’s in charge,” he says slowly. “And he’s out of town, went down to the Hamptons for an early summer vacation. Buck and me’ll head down day after tomorrow, escort him and his lady, that’s Pepper, you know about her?” Peter nods, everyone knows about Pepper Stark. “We’ll go get them back up here. It’s kind of a nuthouse without him around, I guess. You’re not catching any of us at our best.”

Peter shrugs because for kidnappers, they’ve been okay. He’s still in one piece. He’s had a bath, and they gave him a Coke. He doubts the Lindbergh baby got that much.

Steve says, “Come on out, now. Step out. I’ll help you slide into these.”

Peter says, faintly, “I can put on my own-” because it’s worth a try.

“Yeah, I know you  _ can _ ,” interrupts Steve impatiently, a little frustration tingeing his voice. Peter flinches because he doesn’t want to make the man  _ angry _ . He was just  _ trying _ . “But I want to help, so you’ll let me do it.”

Peter nods and balances on one foot for the pants leg Steve holds out to him. The man slides the pants up his hips, flipping them neatly over Peter’s privates in a way that feels respectful, and then rests his fingers there, at the waistband, for a moment. “Here, changed my mind,” says Steve, “Give me that towel.”

Peter surrenders the towel and holds still while Steve scrubs it around his head, across his shoulders, down his back and chest. It’s so thick and full, it feels like there’s not a drop of water left on him with Steve’s done. Peter’s blinking back tears again, for no reason he can see, when Steve stops and says, “Yeah, you’re a doll, an absolute angel, the hellcat was right. Mr. Stark is a lucky man, matched set like you two.”

Peter shakes his head because he still, he doesn’t  _ know _ , matched set means something to these people that Peter can’t figure out. “You’ll see, it’ll be okay,” Steve tells him with confidence, and then whips the shirt around Peter’s shoulders, waiting for Peter to slide his arms in before beginning to button it. Peter tries to help, but gets his hands smacked away for the effort. He stands there and tries not to feel like a doll. The man’s guns are gleaming, inches from Peter’s face, and he shifts nervously as the man finishes the last button. 

Steve looks down at Peter’s feet and winces. “Yeah, okay, you’re not walking on those until the doc gets here, I’m not having it.” He sweeps Peter up into his arms, which makes Peter yelp. “I don’t care, I know you’re in a tizzy, but those look painful and I’m not having it,” he scolds, as he walks them both back to the other room. He seems to debate between the bed and the couches, which thought makes Peter silently pray for the couches.

Steve shrugs and deposits Peter on a couch, and then says, “Stay put. I’m sticking my neck out into the hallway to tell Karen to have to doc be here soon as the smoke signals can reach him.” Peter nods his intention to comply and looks down at his feet. They’re just  _ blistered _ . 

Steve re-enters the room and says, “Bucky’s just down the hall, got the cart already loaded, you hungry?”

Peter’s stomach answers for him, in the most embarrassing fashion, and Steve laughs out loud. “Okay, you can eat. Until we get you fattened up a bit, you can have as much as you want, even. Harley was a stubborn little hellcat when Mr. Stark brought him in, refused to eat, but you’re going to be an angel for me, aren’t you?” 

Peter nods.

“You’re so quiet,” muses Steve. “That a you thing or a first day thing?”

Peter shrugs, and then says, “I don’t know.”

Steve laughs, “I bet not. Probably don’t know if you’re coming or going at this point. Sorry about Harley. Mr. Stark put the idea into his head and then lit out with his frau, and he’s been left here to stew on it for weeks now. He doesn’t do well without some action, our Hellcat.”

“He said Mr. Stark was looking to adopt me?” asks Peter plaintively.

Steve chokes as Bucky wheels a trolley into the room, trays clanking loudly in the quiet of the suite. “Well, yes, and no,” he temporizes. “I mean, legally, yes, absolutely, you’ll be his heirs and everything.”

“Assuming Harley’s right,” puts in Bucky. 

“He is,” states Steve simply, as Bucky lifts the lid on the soup tureen and starts rattling among the dishes for bowls. Steve swipes the baseball glove and ball to the floor and then kicks them under the table.

“So what’s the no?” Peter asks his hands in his lap, staring at nothing but them, wincing as silence fills the room.

“Well, it ain’t exactly a father-son experience he’s looking for, Peter,” says Steve eventually.

Bucky snorts. “You can say that louder, on a mountaintop.”

“That’s all I’m saying,” says Steve firmly. “You can ask Mr. Stark the rest when he gets here. In four days.”

Peter swallows.

“I’d stay back but that means Natasha with Bucky on the train, and Mr. Stark hates it to be unbalanced like that, for Mrs. Stark,” Steve says. The sentence makes no sense to Peter, who accepts the soup bowl he’s offered by Bucky.

“Balance is important,” comments Peter, which is something he heard Harley say back at the Home.

“Yeah, you said it, kid,” remarks Bucky gruffly, sitting down in a nearby chair. Peter takes a cautious sip of the thick chicken soup and closes his eyes, because it’s delicious. “He’s a man needs to walk a fine line, Mr. Stark.”

Peter sips his soup and doesn’t say anything more for the rest of the meal, accepting the two plates full of food with silent nods and shaking his head when the chocolate mousse is offered to him.

“Well, kid, time for those feet,” sighs Steve. “Here, scoot up, let me sit next to you.”

Peter can feel his heart start to hammer in his chest again as the other man comes near. Bucky begins packing up all the dishes back onto the cart in a haphazard pile. Steve sits and lifts Peter’s feet to settle in his lap. 

Bucky hisses as he gets a good look at them and says, “You call for the doc?” He pushes the little cart out of the room and wipes his hands on his pants.

“Yeah, he’ll be here in the morning probably,” says Steve. “Nothing to be done, I guess. There’s a few popped but not many.”

“Well, I’ve got first watch, so I’m going to go sack out for a few,” Bucky says, nodding towards the bed.    
  
“Good call. Here, you can take Peter,” says Steve and Peter’s head swings around wildly to stare at Bucky. “You need rest, angel,” Steve tells Peter firmly. “So go take it.”

Peter shakes his head, protesting silently, not that any of his protests have gotten him anywhere. It doesn’t help this time, either. Bucky lifts him easily and carries him to the bed. Steve draws back the covers and Bucky slides Peter onto the bed, smoothly.

“Here, I’ll be way over here, won’t even touch you,” assures Bucky, taking off his guns and putting them on the other side’s table in easy reach.

Peter swallows because he used to share a bed with Uncle Ben and Aunt May, winters got cold and there wasn’t any money for a second mattress. But this is not Uncle Ben. This is a  _ kidnapper _ , and this place has hundreds of beds, he knows that, just looking at it he knows there’s hundreds of beds in the mansion. Bucky could go find any one of them. Wait, why’s he using  _ Harley’s _ , anyway?

“You’ll be fine,” says Steve. “I’ll be watching.”

Peter thinks of the car, how he’d  _ been watching _ and how that isn’t always as innocent as it sounds. He nods, though, and Steve pulls the covers up to his chin, ruffling his hair and saying, “Okay, angel, good dreams.”

Peter’s so tired, and the bed is seriously soft and warm. He means to stay wide awake, but the room is quiet, his stomach is actually full, all the way full, which hasn’t happened in months, and it starts to rain outside, getting dark. He means to stay awake, but he slips off to the sound of Bucky’s breathing evening out, and the rumble of thunder in the distance.

~~~

It’s dark, and Peter is warm, and a quiet voice says, “Shift over, angel.” There’s a gentle but insistent touch to his shoulder, and Peter shifts, and he’s back asleep before the covers settle.

~~~

“Mm,” hums a satisfied voice near Peter’s ear. Peter startles awake, eyes fluttering in panic, because that’s _not_ _Ned_. He sees long black hair on the pillow in front of him, and there’s a hand thrown over his waist from behind. He can feel his breathing shatter and speed up, his heart hammering as he rapidly reviews what he knows. Harley’s voice says sleepily, just behind him “Oh, Christ, he’s up and off to the races already.”

Bucky, in front of him, rolls over clumsily and grunts, “Hey, kid, breathe. I know Harley toldja you’re not getting hurt by us. Be smart enough to listen a little. All this panicking ain’t good for you, and it ain’t changing anything. Get smart.”

Peter nods and tries to  _ stop, _ but that just leaves him spluttering even harder.

“Just breathe, kid,” growls Bucky, rolling his eyes. “Here, in and out with me, c’mon.”

Peter concentrates on the other man’s lips, watching him breathe in and out, trying desperately to match him. Harley’s hand is rubbing small circles on his chest and that’s  _ really not helping _ . Slowly, the world gains focus other than Bucky’s lips and trying to match the even pace, and Peter can feel the tension leak out of his shoulders. Harley presses a kiss to one and Peter twitches, he can’t help it. “Ahh, angel, don’t be like that, my head is killin’ me and the guts are finishing the job,” moans Harley.

“Here, Hellcat, I’ll haul him away, get him some breakfast, let you die the peaceful death you don’t deserve,” teases Bucky. 

Harley flips over and mutters into his pillow, “Sounds good. I’ll be up in hours.”

Bucky moves the covers back and tugs on Peter’s arms. Peter tells him, “I can walk, I  _ can _ . I’ll walk wherever you want me to, sir.”

“Yeah, and have Steve bite my head clean off? Not happening, kid, get used to it. Until the doc sees those flats of yours, you’re getting carried,” grunts Bucky, lifting him up with ease. The man is built along leaner lines than Steve, but it’s clear to Peter that there’s not much point in squirming.

“Get out, stop talking,” moans Harley.

Bucky carries him a short way down the hallway into another set of opulent rooms, done in grays and greens, and places him on a couch, arranging his legs so Peter’s feet are off the floor. “Stay put. And quiet, Steve’s sleeping off the early morning watch.”

Peter’s gaze skitters over to the bed, which does have a large bump in it, and he nods.

Bucky leaves the room, and Peter sits on the couch, trying to be  _ very smart _ in his borrowed pajamas.

His feet don’t even hurt all that much, he thinks, bewildered. It’s just  _ blisters _ .

When Bucky returns, he has a gigantic tray with him that he sets on the low table, pushing it closer to Peter and lifting the lid. There’s more food on that tray than Peter thinks he’s ever seen on the table at the Home. “Dig in,” says Bucky quietly. “Don’t be shy, you need fattening up.”

Peter swallows and nods, reaching for the bowl of oatmeal steaming gently while Bucky spears a huge sausage and bites into it. Bucky alternates between bites of sausage and sips of coffee, and then tells Peter, “There’s a cup o’ joe there for you, too, kid.”

Peter shakes his head. “Never tried it before,” he mumbles.

“Gonna be a day of firsts for you, pal, might as well have a sip to give you strength for it. Here, I’ll sweeten it the way Harley likes his.” He pours some cream and honey into the second mug of black liquid and stirs it, holding it out for Peter.

Peter accepts it and looks down at it and he can’t stop himself from asking, “Bucky, what, what am I doing here?”

Bucky chuckles, biting off another piece of sausage, and tells him, “Pretty sure Harley covered that in that fat skirt’s office. He’s looking for someone to balance him out, and you fit the bill close enough.”

“What does that mean, balance him out?” asks Peter, since Bucky’s  _ talking _ . He takes a sip of the warm coffee and it’s a weird flavor, still bitter and dark, but not, not  _ bad _ .

“Oh, yeah, that’s Mr. Stark’s thing,” says Bucky, taking a sip of his own joe, black, and looking at Peter over the rim as he swallows. “He’s not whatcha call sane, you know. Too hard, keeping it all straight between the underbelly and the high hog. He likes to keep it all separate and straightened out. Take his dames, Pepper and Natasha. Pepper’s sweetness and light, real classy, and he got Happy for her for personal bodyguard, nice guy, real professional, but clean cut. And then there’s Natasha, who’s about as deadly as a viper at midnight, and she came with Clint, and you’ve never met a nastier human being than Clint. Or me and Steve,” he adds, nodding at the bed. “That’s another one for you. Harley’s been Mr. Stark’s without a balance forever now, and we all just assumed, you know, he wouldn’t be able to get an angel could fill that spot. But Harley got it into his head he could find one and here you are, on trial, although the hellcat’s not usually wrong. Well, not about Mr. Stark, anyway,” he chuckles.

Peter swallows and asks, in a voice just above a whisper, “What does Harley do for Mr. Stark?” If the man has two dames, what, what could he need with Harley, whose  _ tongue _ knows  _ tricks _ .

Bucky gives him a long slow look, and his dark lashes sweep down as he takes another sip. “All kinds of things, kid. Most of which, being on the side of the angels, you’ll never need to know about, so be smart and don’t ask.” His tone is very firm, a low rumbling that Peter can feel in his bones. Peter nods, because the man seems to be waiting for some kind of response and he’s giving out nods to these people like tickertape in a parade. 

“Yeah,” snorts Bucky. “But my guess is, you’re worried about the  _ sex _ . I’ve no idea if Mr. Stark’ll want that out of you, angel, or if he’ll want Harley for that and you for something else. Like I said, he’s more’n a little cracked. But I saw you when Steve moved in on you in that dump, and I don’t think there’s anything you need to worry about. Don’t let Harley razz you about it. He can guess all he wants but only Mr. Stark’ll make that call.”

Peter swallows and stutters, “B-but what- I d-don’t-”

“Don’t be wet, kid, you’ll be set up here with every thing you never had, you can close your eyes and think of England,” chuckles Bucky, his dark eyes flashing amusement. “You may not be a pro skirt, but neither is Pepper and she makes it work.”

Peter can feel himself flushing and he nods, just to end the conversation, taking a heaping spoonful of the oatmeal and following it up with a sip of the sweetened coffee.

“Yeah, Mr. Stark’s a real sheik, and if the Cap had you gasping for more, Mr. Stark’ll have you completely bent,” chuckles Bucky, finishing off the sausage and grabbing a thick slice of toast.

Peter blushes, remembering the moment when Steve had- well, he  _ had _ been gasping, he can’t deny that.

“Eat up, angel,” Bucky tells him again, his expression wry and knowledgeable. “Even if Mr. Stark decides to bounce you on Friday, you got five days to put meat on your bones and sleep on clouds. Might as well take advantage and soak it up.”

~~~

It’s hours later, and Peter is back on the couch after an uneventful trip to the toilet. Bucky brought him up the daily papers and he’s been reading them, a familiar routine even if Peter’s not planning to go shouting on the streets selling them later. He’s deep in the business section when the door opens and Bucky walks in with a gray-templed man in a purple shirt.

“Hey, angel, this’s Doc Banner, here to take a look at your doggies,” announces Bucky as he passes the couch and heads over to the bed. “Wake up, Sleeping Beauty,” he says, slapping the lump on the bed playfully, “daylight's burning and the doc is here.”

Steve grumbles and then groans, “God, Harley was in a mood last night, didn’t get in until Richards shut up the Fantastic. He eat any?” He asks, sitting up and scrubbing his face, nodding at Peter.

“Who, your angel? Yeah, split one of Ma Friday’s big trays with me. Here, cup of Joe with your name on it.”

“Good, kid,” Steve praises him, stretching and standing to pad to one of the doors on the opposite wall. He’s sporting a huge tent in his pants, which he twitches as he walks.

When he’s out of sight, Peter’s gaze returns to the doctor and he swallows nervously as the man sets his bag down and lifts Peter’s feet to sit down beside him on the couch.

“These look nasty,” he comments, tilting Peter’s feet this way and that, and he has a quiet, educated voice, soothing. “Where’d you pick them up?”

Peter shrugs, “Hitting pavement with busted shoes. I almost had enough saved for a new set but the shop didn’t have any in my size,” he adds defensively, after Doc Banner clicks his tongue in mild censure.

Doc Banner hums again, turning his head to speak to Bucky, “When’s the big shot get in, again?”

“Friday,” replies Bucky.

“Well, we can have him up and on ‘em by then, I reckon,” says the doc. “None of ‘em have infection yet.”

Peter breathes a sigh of relief even though he  _ knew _ that. These people are crazy over a couple of  _ blisters _ .

The doc says, “Tasha came by last night, said Harley’s thinking of getting this kid adopted?”

Steve re-enters the room, saying, “Yeah, he’s an angel, Mr. Stark’s gonna love him.”

The doc nods noncommittally and announces, “Should do the full work up, then.”

“Kid’s a virgin,” Bucky grunts. Peter twitches because it’s true, but, but what does that have to do with  _ anything _ .

“Well, so maybe not the full one,” says the doc with a chuckle, reaching into his bag. “That true, kid?” he asks seriously, making deliberate eye contact with Peter for the first time, his dark eyes solemn.

Peter nods. 

“Well, hell, Tony really is going to lose his damn mind,” declares the doc, a sly smile sliding across his features. “Got a real thing about purity, you know,” he says conversationally, pulling out a stethoscope. “Here, sit forward, those feet can come off the couch a little, won’t hurt ‘em.”

Peter sits up, fully, for the first time since his bath. The doc lifts his shirt and then starts unbuttoning it and Peter bites his lip. Aunt May had a doc, at the end, and he’d always left her clothes on just fine, but Peter slots a glance at Bucky, who’s handing Steve up a piece of cold toast, and whose sidepieces are gleaming in the light. He’s not gonna argue, he decides, eyeing that shiny metal gleam, as he lets the doc slide the shirt off his shoulders.

“Skinny little thing, aren’t you?” comments the doc, shifting to place the stethoscope on Peter’s chest. “Have to get him fed up, can count each and every one of his ribs. What was Harley thinking?”

“Shoulda seen him before the bath,” snorts Bucky. “But he kisses real nice, right Cap?”

Peter darts a glance at Steve, who is chewing his toast and flushing, glaring at Bucky. Peter looks away as Steve swallows and says conversationally, “Yeah, Harley sure can pick ‘em.”

The other two men chuckle conspiratorially. Peter shrinks back as the doc puts the stethoscope away and announces, “Lungs are clear, digestion sounds normal. You use the can recently?” he asks Peter. Peter shakes his head, it’s been awhile. “Well, get him up, one of you carry him in there, keep him off them blisters as much as possible, we’ll get ‘em soaking, too, there’s a couple already busted open. Leave whatever comes out in the toilet, I’ll check it for worms.”

“I don’t have  _ worms _ ,” gasps Peter, achingly embarrassed as Steve gathers him up like he’s a child again. “And I don’t have lice. I’m not  _ Irish _ , I keep  _ saying _ .”

“Well, I am,” says the doc, “And I don’t have ‘em either, but I’m not from a hovel and I’m not taking any chances. Gimme his pants when you take ‘em off of him, I can check those, too.”

“I don’t have worms,” Peter tells Steve, wide eyed, willing the other man to understand.

“Well, that’s good,” Steve teases him. “But Harley did, so you’ll excuse us for making sure.” He slides Peter onto the stool and slips the pajama pants off of him, taking them with him out of the room.

“Worms and lice and scabies,” agrees Bucky, calling from the other room. “And ringworm. The hellcat was a wreck.”

Peter can’t picture the dandy from the night before in the glad rags with worms and lice. The images won’t match up in his vision. He turns his attention to his business, and when he’s done, he doesn’t flush. The thought makes him a little sick to his stomach, but maybe he’s getting smart because he can guess that if he’d flushed, that would be the end of him using the toilet alone. “Uh, all done,” he calls, and Steve re-appears chewing on something, like he’d been standing right outside the door waiting. The doc is right behind him and Peter doesn’t watch what the doc does as Steve carries him to this sink and sets him down to wash his hands before hauling him up again for the walk back to the couch. 

Except Steve doesn’t take him to the couch, he puts him on the bed, still warm from Steve’s body heat. Peter’s naked, and he shivers, but Steve pulls the covers up over him and says, “Wait here, doc’s not done yet, might as well get it all done at once and then dress you back up again.”

“Aww, he looks so sweet, tucked in your bed like that,” says a familiar voice from the doorway, and Peter mentally groans and shuts his eyes for a moment of peace as Harley walks in. “Clint came, said the doc was here.”

“Yeah, he’s in the bathroom,” says Bucky, pointing with this thumb over his shoulder. “You need coffee, hellcat?”

“Yes,” moans Harley, but he walks over to perch on the bed beside Peter. He motions for Peter to scoot further in the bed and then flops to sit beside him, tousling Peter’s hair with a playful gleam in his eye. “Gimme,” he demands, putting a hand out behind him and wiggling his fingers.

Peter watches Bucky roll his eyes, but pour another cup of coffee into Peter’s mug, sweetening it with the cream and honey again. He stands and brings it over to the bed, depositing it in Harley’s hand, taking a sip of his own, and looking down at Peter with dark eyes. “Yeah, he’s sweet,” Bucky comments, slow and easy.

“Told you,” laughs Harley, in between sips of coffee. “I said you’d like him. Shoulda seen him blushing in the car after I took care of Steve, thought he was going to go up in flame, just the way you like ‘em, Buck.” 

“That’s enough, Harley,” says Steve sternly. “He’s had a good morning, nice and quiet, he doesn’t need you pushing him any.”

“He’s  _ my _ kid brother,” protests Harley with a wink at Peter that Peter doesn’t understand and doesn’t  _ want _ . “Oh God, I’m getting bunk beds for my room, can you just imagine the look on Tony’s face? It’ll be precious.”

“Bunk beds?” asks the doc, coming into the room wiping his hands with a rag. “Oh Lord, you’re looking to  _ combust _ the big shot.”

“Enough,” says Steve again. Harley subsides, burying his smile in his mug, but doesn’t do more than shift to the end of the bed when the doc presses on him with a steady hand, pushing him to the foot of the bed. He rests one hand on Peter’s ankle, under the blankets, possessively.

The doc twitches down the blankets, business-like, and Peter squirms because everyone’s standing around  _ watching  _ and he’s  _ fully nude _ . The doc doesn’t seem to care, poking and prodding at Peter’s abdomen, bending and twisting his limbs, making little noises of curiosity and approval as he works.

“You seeing his blush, Buck?” teases Harley, and Steve smacks him on the back of the head with the heel of his hand. Harley whirls his head to glare up at Steve, rubbing where the hand had connected with a meaty thump.   
  
“I mean it, Hellcat,” warns Steve, face clearly annoyed. Peter’s so glad it’s Harley under that glare and not him, as the doc throws the blanket back over his torso and starts to feel up his neck and collarbones. “He’s not up for it and I ain’t having him laying around in tears until the weekend.”

Harley looks not at all shamefaced as he challenges with a smirk, “You gonna make your new rule  _ stick _ , Cap?”

“I might,” says Steve, pressing into Harley’s space. “Or I might have Bucky take you out back, if need be.” Harley pales a little, lips pressing tight as he flashes Bucky a quick glance. Bucky raises a single eyebrow at Harley and Peter’s breath hisses in a little at the dark menace in that single second of look. Even Harley swallows, Peter can see, can feel Harley’s hand grip a little tighter on his ankle for a second. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Be a good little kitty. Stop batting at your mouse, let him breathe a little.”

Harley vents a shaky breath and asks, “So, doc?” as the doc sits up a little. 

“So far so good. Little underweight, you work on that,” he points a finger at Peter, shaking it playfully. Peter nods eagerly, he can absolutely work on that, like Bucky said, he’s got five days to eat as much as he wants and the food here is so  _ good _ . “Eat as much as you can stand, I want those ribs fleshed out by next month. Should stay off the feet if you want him walking for Mr. Stark on Friday, soak ‘em twice a day in a sitz bath, I’ll leave the instructions with Karen.” He digs in his bag and says, “Open up, kid, let me take a look at them chompers. You brush at the Home?”

Peter nods. “Daily,” he croaks, opening his mouth. Although not always under his own steam. The matron definitely liked to show off who was boss with that little routine, right before bed.

“Good. Taxes pay for it, would be ticked to hear your headmaster was skimping,” says the doc, leaning in with a scope. There’s a few uncomfortable minutes while the man lifts Peter’s gums and pokes at his tongue before declaring, “Looks good, nothing I can see. Get him a brush, Steve, make sure he keeps it up. Not too many sweets, good food, lots of meat if you can stomach it.”

“Steak?” asks Harley hopefully.

“Definitely. And liver, too, if you can get it in him. Looks a little pale.”

The other men all nod agreement. The doc sits back, dropping the scope in his bag beside the bed. “Well, that’s that, then. Wish I had an apple to give you,” he chuckles, “you’re the best patient I’ve ever had in this house.”

Harley rolls his eyes. “He’s an  _ angel _ , I keep  _ saying _ ,” he complains, shaking Peter’s ankle.

“I’m inclined to agree,” chuckles the doc, smoothing out the blankets on Peter’s chest, his eyes full of warm affection. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on them doggies, you stay off them, you hear me? Let me show you how to wrap ‘em, Steve.”

“I want to learn,” whines Harley. “He’s  _ my _ brother.”

Peter looks up beseechingly at Steve, who smiles back down at him and says, “Yeah, okay, cat, you can learn, too,” to Peter’s disappointment. “Bucky and me leave tomorrow to go get the Starks,  _ someone’s _ got to, and you don’t want it to be Natasha or Clint,” he reminds Peter.

“Karen could do it,” interjects Bucky with a twinkle in his eye. 

“Karen,” scoffs Harley. “ _ Karen _ , for  _ my kid brother? _ No, family takes care of family, that’s what Tony says.”

Bucky concedes this point with a nod. 

“Nice to see you taking any interest in putting things back together and caring for them,” comments the doc, digging through his bag and producing a roll of gauze and a little pot of something white. “Usually get called out here because you’ve been taking them apart.”

Harley ducks his head and mutters darkly, “Never had a brother before.”

The doc tousles his hair and says, “It’s a good look on you, Hellcat. Can’t wait for the first fight, though. It’ll keep me up all night, thinking about it. Stick to pillows, he doesn’t look like he could handle a punch.”

“I wouldn’t ever!” Harley tells him, scowling. “He’s an  _ angel _ .”

“And you’re the worst kind of demon,” the doc laughs, before motioning Harley to scoot to the other side of the bed. He flips the blankets off of Peter entirely, again, and this time Peter glares at him and recovers his torso, which makes Harley laugh, Bucky snort, and the doc grin. “Shy angel,” murmurs the doc, grabbing one of Peter’s ankles. “Put this cream on, thick, like this-” Peter hisses as the cold cream is slathered all over his feet and the doc grimaces in sympathy. “And then start the wrap here, go up and around, like, this, all the way down.” Harley is watching raptly, but Steve looks unconcerned, like he’s seen something similar many times before. “There, like that, you do it, Harley. Not too tight, not too loose, just gentle.”

Harley’s fingers are more tentative than the docs, but the cream is spread just as quickly. 

As Harley works on the wrapping, Peter feels compelled to tell the room, “I can do this myself.”

“You can,” agrees Steve, nodding, and giving him a stern look, “but you won’t.”

Peter swallows under that heavy gaze and nods back again, sinking into the pillows a little. “It’s just blisters,” he whispers.    
  
“Yeah, on  _ our _ angel,” snorts Harley, finishing the wrap and catching Peter’s eye with a fierce look of his own. “I’m not having it. You’re  _ ours _ now.”

“Listen to him,” laughs the doc, standing up.

“Little boss,” teases Steve, his voice shot through with approval. “You shoulda seen him in the Homes, walking around just like Mr. Stark, throwing his weight, I about fell over laughing.”

Harley pouts up at them and says, “I’m the  _ heir _ .”

“You’re something all right, Hellcat, ” says Bucky affectionately, leaning over to tousle his head. “Did the family proud, is all. Steve may have been laughing, but I was thinking,  _ there’s a man to follow. _ ”

Harley flushes with pride, dropping his eyes. “Yeah?” he asks in a small voice.

“Yup,” confirms Bucky. 

Harley squirms a little and slides the blankets over Peter’s legs to cover his obvious pleasure at this accolade. 

“Well, call if something happens, he might get sick, remember what it was like when you were dragged in, Harley, good food’s as much a shock to the system as a lot of food. Slow and steady, lots of meals, lots of sitting around.”

“You read, Peter?” asks Harley suddenly.

Peter nods to the papers, “Yeah, Bucky brought me today’s broadsides, I’m nearly through them.”

“Good. We can take him to the library, have him settle there for the next few days, keep him busy and keep him happy,” says Harley, nodding decisively. 

Steve and Bucky share a look and then shrug their shoulders. “Sure, cat, ‘sall the same to us.”

“Mr. Stark’s building me a theater in the new wing for Christmas,” Harley tells Peter, bouncing a little, “once I’m on the last McGuffy reader. Pepper’s gonna love that you can read already.” Peter blinks at what that reveals about the other man. It’s as shocking to know as it is to remember he had ringworm and lice when he arrived here. It’s as shocking as remembering that he has a tricksy tongue.

“Well, let’s do the library this afternoon, angel looks a little worn around the edges. We’ll feed him some lunch and have a lie down,” offers Steve. 

Harley groans but peels himself off the bed. “I’ll go get a tray from the kitchen, want to have mine up here with him,” he says, and then he’s out the door.    
  
“I’ll be taking my leave, as well,” says the doc with a smile. “Excellent to make your acquaintance, son. You’ll be a good addition to the flock, as it were. Star patient. Eat up and rest up.”

Peter nods, and feels himself choke up again for no reason he can figure out.

Steve settles on the bed next to him and takes Peter’s hands in his,  _ caressing his knuckles _ with his rough thumbs. “Yeah, I figured. You did okay, angel. Just close your eyes and lay back a moment, take it all in.”

Peter follows those directions, sighing. Nothing makes sense anymore and his head hurts worse than his feet.

“You’ll be fine, angel,” soothes Steve. 

“Just remember to stay smart,” adds Bucky, and Peter doesn’t open his eyes, just nods, tears welling again. 

“You’ll be fine,” repeats Steve reprovingly.

Peter nods again, breathing heavily.

“Good kid,” says Steve.

Peter lets the other man hold his hands and just breathes. Maybe if he’s quiet and  _ good _ , they’ll give him back some  _ clothes _ . It’s worth a shot.

~~~

The afternoon is as slow as the morning was, once Bucky dresses him in a new pair of Harley’s pajamas and carries him to the library. It’s interrupted once by Clint and Natasha, reporting to Bucky about some errand they were running by the docks that apparently went off without a hitch.

Clint spots him tucked into the window seat with a book and a thick cookie and a glass of milk and says, “Oh, Lord, is this Hellcat’s matched set, then?”

“Yeah, that’s him, don’t bite,” says Bucky absently, looking at the paper Natasha has handed him.

“Well, he’s pretty enough, that’s for sure, look at that mouth,” snickers Clint, not coming any closer, bouncing on his feet like he’s a dog at the end of his leash, seven steps from Natasha’s side.

“You shut yours,” orders Natasha. Clint grins at Peter, clearly enjoying Peter’s discomfort. “He looked like a drowned plague rat last night,” she tells Bucky. “What’d you do?”

“Bath, doc was by, fed him up a little,” lists Bucky, his attention fixed on the sheet in front of him, finger trailing slowly and mouth moving as he reads through the words.

“Such miracles,” murmurs Natasha, tilting her head at Peter in curiosity. Peter shrinks back against the pillows a little. She snorts and dismisses him, returning her full attention to Bucky. “Well, we’re for bed. Clint get you his paperwork last night?”

“Such as it was, Steve sent it on to the lawyer,” Bucky replies absently. “Looks right, anyway, I’ll take it to the boss tomorrow with me,” he says, folding the paper and tucking it in his pocket.

“You do that,” agrees Natasha, with one more too-bright look thrown in Peter’s direction. “C’mon, Hawkeye, let’s jet.”

“Behind ya,” agrees Clint, winking at Peter before turning on his heel and trailing after the woman.

Peter breathes for a moment and when nothing else is said, returns to Robinson Crusoe. If the man can survive cannibals, Peter can survive this insanity.

~~~

That night he’s tucked in next to Harley in the other man’s bed after a long bath, supervised by Steve while Bucky sleeps. Steve has first watch, he informs Peter. Harley has apparently made the unusual decision not to go out on the town, but to spend the night in with Peter. Peter can’t bring himself to be grateful for the company, but he’s so tired, again, even though he hasn’t  _ done _ anything all day. 

“Just sleep,” Steve tells him, brushing the hair off his forehead. “Stop thinking so much. Harley, you keep your hands chaste, I’ll be checking.”

Harley nods, not even grumbling at this directive, and burrows into his pillow a little. “Tuck me in?” he asks.    
  
“I’ll tuck you in,” laughs Steve, leaning over to do so roughly, making Harley laugh. “You thinking of givin’ yourself a second childhood before Mr. Stark gets back?”

“Got the bunk bed all ordered today,” confirms Harley.

“You’ll kill the boss, hellcat,” chuckles Steve. “You taking top bunk, then?”

“I’m the oldest, you bet,” Harley tells him seriously. Steve brushes the hair off his forehead, too, fondly. “Well, you boys’ll have to duke that out with Mr. Stark,” he teases. “He might not like having to climb up to have at you. Goodnight, both of you. Hands to yourselves. I’ll be checking, Harley.”

Harley nods happily and Peter nods solemnly.

He flicks the lights off as he exits and Peter didn’t plan to fall asleep, but he’s so tired and the bed is so soft, and for once, Harley listens to instructions and keeps to his side of the bed.

~~~

The next day is a repeat of the first, including a quick once-over by the doc in the morning, which coincides with a breakfast tray with more food than Peter and Harley can eat, even with Bucky helping. Harley doesn’t make his own coffee, Peter notices. He waits and whines for the other men to make it, and mostly, they give in and do it. Peter still can’t figure out which of them is in charge.

The rest of the day is spent in the soothing quiet and calm of the library, dozing in the window seat, looking down at the gardens below, watching Steve and Harley go for a swim in the pool during the hottest part of the afternoon haze.

Harley wanders away around dinner time to go dress to eat with Natasha in the dining room, and Bucky stays with Peter up in Steve’s room. They eat quietly, liver and onions, while Steve sleeps on the bed, which is becoming familiar.

“You’re settling in,” Bucky comments at one point, about half-way through his plate. “Smart angel.”

Peter nods, wondering a little what his other options had been.

“Feet still sore?” asks Bucky, tearing through another piece. Peter shrugs, “They’re just blisters.”

“Yeah. They’re driving Harley nuts, though,” says Bucky, chewing. “Cat’s nothing but a bundle of bad memories before Mr. Stark, real head case. Let him fuss.”

Peter nods. He’s been doing nothing but letting other people run his life for two days now, and if they’re to be believed, that’s not going to change any time soon.

An alarm clock goes off and Steve sits up, blinking blearily. “Car coming ‘round?” he asks.

“You got thirty,” Bucky reassures him. “We’re all packed up. Clint’s driving.”

Steve grunts, then throws off the covers and says, “That liver?”

Bucky nods and offers up a forkful. Steve slides from the bed buck naked and pads over to the couches, leaning down to take it between his teeth. He groans a little, clearly savoring the strong flavor. Peter looks away, down at his plate, quickly. When Steve pads away to the bathroom, instructing Bucky to save a few bites for him, Peter glances up at Bucky. The other man is watching him with a considering look on his face. Peter blushes under the weight of it.

“Hey, Cap, I gotta mess with him just a little,” calls Bucky, and Peter’s heart rate spikes as the other man sets his plate on the table and stands.

“Go ahead,” Steve calls, “We’re leaving in thirty, can’t do no harm in thirty.”

Peter shakes his head, watching Bucky pace forward. “N-no,” he pleads, because he’s  _ eating dinner _ and he’s been  _ quiet _ and  _ good _ and  _ smart.  _ Bucky talks to him, is one of the ones that sits still and quiet and helps him when he’s losing it.  _ No, please _ , he thinks, watching the other man’s eyes darkening the closer he gets to where Peter is seated.

“Yeah, just a little,” Bucky tells him bluntly, crouching in front of him and taking the plate from him, dropping it blindly onto the table behind him. “Scoot here,” he says, wrapping his arms around Peter’s backside, pulling him to the edge of the couch, legs stretched on either side of Bucky’s torso. Peter shakes his head, biting his lip. 

“Not gonna hurt you, angel,” Bucky murmurs, brushing Peter’s hair off his forehead. “Not even gonna mess you up, get you dirty. Mr. Stark wouldn’t like that. He’d be an idiot not to do it himself, but he wouldn’t like it,” concedes Bucky slowly, his eyes staring into Peter’s unblinking. “Harley’s right, you are perfect, gonna drive everybody nuts.” 

He lifts a hand and Peter flinches. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, angel,” Bucky reminds him, sliding his hand through Peter’s hair. “You just hold still, angel, nice and quiet like that.” He cups Peter’s jaw and rubs his thumb across Peter’s lip. Peter can feel tears gathering in his eyes because  _ what? what does he  _ **_want_ ** ? “No need for them crocodile tears,” he tells Peter in a slow drawl, “But you let ‘em flow if you want, won’t bother me none.”

“H-harley said the d-devil side doesn’t know w-what to do with tears,” whimpers Peter, wanting to toss his head but too scared to do more than tremble. He doesn’t know why he says it, other than that Bucky  _ talks _ to him.

Bucky huffs a laugh at that, humor lightening his dark gaze for a moment. “Some of us got some ideas,” he informs Peter. “Some of us got ideas,” he repeats, his gaze dropping to look at Peter’s lips, where his thumb rests. Peter is horribly aware of the rough calluses on the thick thumb as it rests there, not moving now. “Open up, angel,” whispers Bucky, his eyes flashing up to Peter’s again. Peter freezes, breath stuttering in his chest. “C’mon, angel,” croons Bucky, “won’t hurt, won’t even dirty you up any. Just a little, angel. Let me in just a little.” 

Peter looks into his eyes and Bucky looks back, calm and predatory. Peter takes a shaky breath and drops his jaw, just a little bit, lips parting, and Bucky smiles wickedly, leaning in, the tip of his thumb knocking against Peter’s teeth gently, wiggling there. “Good angel,” he whispers, “God, the ideas you give me.” Peter whimpers a little, he can’t help it, and Bucky’s eyes snap with electricity as he leans in further and says, “Shh, no one’s gonna hurt you, I won’t let ‘em, least of all me. Not even gonna get you dirty, angel.” Peter’s eyes well over with the tears he’s been holding back. Bucky watches that, too, traces the tracks down Peter’s cheeks with his dark gaze for a moment before smiling up at Peter and saying in a drawl, “Now that’s too pretty, angel,” and pushing his thumb further in, past Peter’s teeth, touching his tongue, tickling the tip of it. 

“God, Buck,” says Steve, and Peter startles, eyes flying over to where the other man is standing just outside the sitting area. “You’re a sick man.” Bucky doesn’t remove his thumb, even when Peter tries half-heartedly to shake him off. He grips Peter’s chin tighter and says, “Stay still, angel. Still and quiet, just like you were, that’s a smart kid.” Peter whimpers and Bucky’s eyes flash. He glances over his shoulder at Steve and says, “We gotta get going before I do something we’ll all regret.”

Steve laughs and teases, “You make such a pretty picture, though, the big bad wolf forcing his way on the innocent little crying boy. You gonna cry wolf, Peter, angel?”

Peter shakes his head slightly, looking at Bucky’s dark eyes as they snap with emotions Peter can’t even identify.    
  
“Well, that’s smart,” drawls Bucky. “That’s real smart, because around here, no one would even listen. They’d take one look at you and know you were lying about it not being something you’re looking for. Don’t you go crying wolf, little angel, or the wolves will hear you crying for them and get ideas. And there’s a lot worse wolves than me.”

That’s not how that story goes, thinks Peter wildly, heart hammering. That’s not, the story is a  _ parable _ , about not looking for too much attention, not trying to get out of  _ work _ , but they’ve twisted it, Bucky’s  _ twisted _ it. Peter thinks about that, how Bucky’s  _ twisting _ things, twisting  _ everything,  _ his thumb pressed in just past Peter’s lips, body coiled with tension in his crouch. He shakes his head a little, trying to let the other man know he won’t, he won’t cry wolf, this is bad enough, he won’t-

“Shh,” whispers Bucky. “Not gonna hurt you any, not even gonna get you dirty. Breathe, angel, be good for me.” He rubs his thumb across Peter’s lower teeth, slowly, his eyes searching Peter’s for a reaction. Peter nods a fraction, trusting the other man to pick up the motion with how closely he’s watching Peter. Bucky’s  _ twisting _ everything, but Peter can still be so good. Nobody has to get mad. Nobody has to get dangerous. “There’s my angel,” murmurs Bucky, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against Peter’s tongue, now. “There’s my quiet, good angel. Shhh.”

“Sweet Christ,” swears Steve. “Bucky, I’m gonna blow you so hard when we get in that car.”

Bucky vents a hissing laugh, his eyes suddenly alight. He drags his thumb back out of Peter’s mouth, resting it back on his lips, and turns to slot Steve a look over his shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be on his side?” he chuckles.

“I’m on the side of whatever gets you blown,” swears Steve vehemently. “That was so  _ hot _ .”

“Just a little fun,” admits Bucky, standing up, his hand trailing along Peter’s jaw, wiping away the tears on Peter’s cheeks. “Didn’t even dirty him up.”

“Dirtied  _ me _ up,” laughs Steve. “Angel, didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Yeah you did,” Bucky chuckles, patting Peter on the head, leaning down to push his dinner plate back at him, motioning him to sit back in the seat. He hands Steve up the rest of his own plate with a cheeky grin. “I saw you in that dump, sliding your hand on his cheek. You knew then.”

Steve grins slyly and says, “Well, I might have had a couple of ideas.”

Bucky chuckles. Peter takes a bite of his food and chews slowly, horribly conscious of his lips and teeth and tongue. Fifteen minutes ago, he didn’t want Bucky and Steve to leave him here alone with Harley for two whole days. Now, now he’s fine with it. They can leave and never come back, for all he’s concerned.

“Don’t pout, doll,” laughs Bucky, “Or we won’t get out of here at all tonight.”

Harley bounds in to the room with his usual energy and announces, “Car’s out front, Cap, put some clothes on.” Steve continues to eat, chewing slowly and staring at Harley. “Okay, or stay here,” concedes Harley with a wicked smile, “and leave ‘em off.”

Bucky laughs. “All right, Hellcat. You be on your best behavior.”

“Can’t go to any gin joints, Tasha says she needs Clint when he gets back,” mourns Harley, flopping onto the couch next to Peter. He opens his mouth wide and Peter stares at him for a moment before dropping a forkful of mashed potato into it. Harley smiles up at him sunnily. “So I guess it’s just the two of us here for the night.”

“Remember that he’s for Mr. Stark,” says Steve sharply, handing his empty plate to Bucky, who looks at it blankly and drops it back on the table. Steve turns to rummage in the chest of drawers set along the left wall, pulling out a set of travel clothes that matches Bucky’s get up.

“He’s almost  _ my kid brother _ ,” counters Harley, rolling his eyes. He opens his mouth wide for another bite and Peter drops another dollop in, feeling weird as he watches Harley chew and swallow. “I’m not gonna dirty him up before them papers are signed, you think I’m crazy? I picked him out, it took  _ months _ . Well, weeks,” he corrects, and then opens his mouth for another bite.

“What, you didn’t eat enough at dinner,” laughs Bucky, gesturing at them as Peter slides another dollop of mashed potatoes into Harley’s mouth. 

“I like his better,” Harley says defiantly, and then opens his mouth again as Bucky and Steve both start hooting. Peter sighs, and feeds him the last bite on his plate. Bucky leans over and takes the empty plate, stacking it with the other one. “Here, cat, take these and set ‘em out in the hall,” he directs. “I gotta use the can before we head out.”

Harley flies into motion like he does everything, bounding with energy. He’s back flopping beside Peter on the couch in moments. “Well, we can’t stay here,” he tells Steve. “One of you carry him to my room, that’s where we’ll be for the next couple of days until you get back. I’ll bring up some books, Peter,” he says seriously. “I can’t carry you like they can.”

Peter opens his mouth to say he can just  _ walk _ and Harley glares at him. “You better not be about to jaw what I think you’re about to jaw,” he tells Peter. “Cause I’m not Steve but I’ll pop you one. Doc said to stay off them hooves ‘til they’ve had a chance to heal up.”

Peter gapes at him. Steve snorts, buttoning up his shirt cuffs, “Like he needs that to behave, kitten. Just keep him fed and remind him to be smart, he’s a good kid. He’ll behave.” His eyes on Peter’s face are serious and Peter closes his jaw and nods. 

“He knows the score,” agrees Bucky. He ducks down to look deep into Peter’s eyes and warn, “He knows Natasha and Clint are around.”

Peter swallows and nods. “Yes, sir,” he says. Bucky touches his thumb to Peter’s lips and says, “Quiet angel. Have a couple of still days. Rest up. We’ll be back.”

“God, see if you can get Mr. Stark to take the 9:00 instead of the noon, please?” begs Harley. “I’m itching for some action and he’s been gone  _ months _ .”

“Three weeks,” corrects Steve, but he’s smiling at the back of Harley’s head as he says it.

“Please, Steve. Talk to Pepper, tell her I miss her,” tries Harley again.

“Then they’ll be taking the red-eye, sure you’re dying,” teases Bucky. “All right, angel, let’s get you to your jail cell.”

It’s probably meant as a joke, but Peter swallows anyway, as the man scoops him up. “You’re doing fine,” the man says as they walk down the hallway. He’s not even strained, lifting Peter like this, his footsteps just as sure as his walk at any other time. “Just stay smart, wait for us to get back. Don’t do nothing stupid, angel.”

“I won’t,” whispers Peter, because he forgets that the man is his kidnapper, sometimes. He forgets that about all of them, and it’s only been a couple of days.

Bucky drops him off on the couch and Steve says, from behind them, “Okay, so you’ve got a bath to take before bed, don’t forget to wrap his feet, Harley.” Harley snorts, flopping next to Peter and crossing his arms. “You get him to bed at a reasonable hour, no hanky panky, Natasha is going to be doing a hands check, so you keep ‘em to yourself, both of you.” Peter has no idea why Steve keeps including him in that injunction but then again, he has no idea why he’s included in  _ any _ of this, really. “Have a quiet two days, we’ll be back Friday afternoon.”

Harley sulks a bit but then says, “Gimme kisses, loverboys,” a laugh evident in his voice.    
  
Steve is chuckling as he tilts Harley over the back of the couch and says, “Gonna miss that mouth, pick up a few new tricks while I’m gone, hey, cat?” before kissing him upside down. Peter glares at the baseball glove under the table. Bucky slides over after Steve and says, “For luck?” before taking his own kiss.

“Safe travels,” Harley tells them both when Bucky’s done, his voice a little husky. “Bring me back Mr. Stark.”

“Fast as we can,” assures Steve with a twinkle in his eye. He ruffles Peter’s hair and says, “Bye, angel.”

Bucky leans in and whispers into Peter’s ear, “Stay smart, kid.” Peter nods and mumbles, “Safe travels” when Harley digs his elbow into Peter’s side and glares at him.

“Well, this is going to be boring,” Harley says, after the door closes. “I hate waiting. You ever play poker, brother?”

Peter shakes his head.

“Well, either you’re fleecing me, or you’re as innocent as you appear,” declares Harley, bounding up and walking over to the desk in the corner of the sitting area. “Let’s find out.”

Peter can’t tell from his tone of voice which option would please Harley more.

**Author's Note:**

> One of the many jobs I work is at a blues/jazz bar, and I was gearing up for the fact that we're throwing a 1920's themed New Year event because IT'S A BLUES/JAZZ CLUB AND THIS IS THE PERFECT OPPORTUNITY, and then this happened.
> 
> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZ3ctEozSuk 
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.
> 
> I'M IRISH SO I PICKED ON THEM, but it's also period-appropriate to pick on the Irish.


End file.
